


in this light and on this evening

by morian



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, happy birthday lynne, the inherent unromanticism of airport sushi bars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26645140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morian/pseuds/morian
Summary: Over the tannoy, an announcement. Something about a gate change for a Delta Airline flight. Nothing important. Pulled out of this moment of pure focus, Eddie falters and loses any semblance of the bravery Richie so passionately ascribed him in the sewers.He stabs the cuttlefish with one chopstick and shoves it into his mouth.Maybe he should have written Richie a fucking letter. It would have been easy enough to slip that into his jacket pocket when he isn't looking, or at least easier than having to look him in the eyes over plates of sushi and say,Hey, bro, I'm in love with you.He probably shouldn't call him bro while he says it."Nothing," he says, feeling like an idiot. "Never mind."OR:Eighteen months after not dying in the sewers underneath Derry, Eddie tries to tell Richie how he feels.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 34
Kudos: 458





	in this light and on this evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beverlymarshian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beverlymarshian/gifts).



> This fic is for my best friend Lynne [@beverlymarshian](https://twitter.com/beverlymarshian) because it's her birthday and I cherish her. Please give her stuff some love and read [route 93](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24570898), [her social media AU 'Lost Transmission'](https://twitter.com/au_transmission), and generally [everything else she has ever written.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beverlymarshian/pseuds/beverlymarshian/works)
> 
> Title is from the song "In This Light And On This Evening" by Editors. 
> 
> _I swear to god, I heard the earth inhale,  
>  Moments before it spat its rain down on me.  
> I swear to god, in this light and on this evening,  
> London's become, the most beautiful thing I've seen._

There is one direct flight from Vancouver to New York once a day. It leaves at 8:45am and takes a total of six hours, getting into New York at 4:53pm EST. It's the perfect flight for Eddie, who prefers to travel early so that he still has some of the day left to do important things such as unpacking, putting on a load of laundry, scrubbing himself raw in the shower until he is certain that the grime of travel won't linger on his skin.

But as fate would have it, one Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier lives in Chicago, and it just so happens that Chicago is conveniently located somewhere between Vancouver and New York. And as much as Eddie likes unpacking, putting on a load of laundry and scrubbing himself raw in the shower, he likes Richie Tozier a hell of a lot more. It's not even a competition. And if it was, Richie would always, always come out on top.

So Eddie books two flights, one from Vancouver International to Chicago O'Hare International and one from Chicago O'Hare International to New York LaGuardia. Both on the same day because he has to be in work on Monday and he can only bend the rules so much for Richie, but he does manage to buy them a five hour window to hang out in between his flights. Or three and half, if you take into account the time it will take Eddie to get off the plane and then back through security on the other side.

Eddie power-walks through O'Hare Airport like the cliche of a businessman, tiny wheeled suitcase and everything, except he has forgone the suit in favour of a more lowkey hoodie and jeans ensemble. Since nearly dying two years ago and seeing God, who goes by _Maturin_ and appears in the shape of a giant turtle, Eddie has stopped shopping at GAP and started shopping wherever Beverly Marsh tells him to go, but all this means is that he now wears hoodies with asymmetrical zippers instead of regular hoodies with symmetrical zippers, and that he has stopped wearing polo shirts.

And, perhaps most importantly, on casual Friday in the office he now wears loose fitting button ups with unconventional patterns just so he can send Richie a picture and get a string of heart-eye emojis in return. He used to tell himself that he did it because he genuinely liked the shirts but since starting therapy and becoming more in touch with his emotions he has been forced to admit that the sole motivation behind it is getting a compliment from Richie.

It's busy in Terminal 2, but not so much that he can't walk in a straight line without someone bumping into him. He follows the route towards arrivals, towards Richie. Every few minutes he fishes his phone out of his pocket to check if Richie has sent him a message, only to find their chat exactly as he left it: 

**To: Richie 3:48pm** **  
**_Just landed._

 **From: Richie 3:49pm** **  
**_[party hat emoji] see you soon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

 **From: Richie 3:50pm** **  
**_my uber is just pulling up outside. i'll be in arrivals, playing the role of a scorned lover ready to confront my partner about the affair with the neighbour's son_

 **To: Richie 3:52pm** **  
**_If you make a scene I am going to turn back around and spend five hours drinking coffee by my gate._

 **From: Richie 3:53pm** **  
**_wtf!!! please, no, i promise i'll behave <3 _

**To: Richie 3:54pm** **  
**_Sure you will :-P_

 **From: Richie 3:54pm** **  
**_ >:) _

There isn't really anything else for either of them to say, so he isn't sure what he expects when he checks his phone for the fourth time since disembarking the plane. Perhaps some secret, nervous part of him fears a last minute cancellation. As though Richie might change his mind, call his Uber driver back and go home.

It's one of those thoughts that Nadja, his therapist, would tell him to examine thoroughly.

 _Q:_ _  
__1\. Is my thought based on fact?_ _  
__2\. Does my thought help me achieve my goals?_ _  
__3\. Does my thought help me feel the way I want to feel?_

 _A:_ _  
__1\. No, asshole._ _  
__2\. Not in the slightest._ _  
__3\. Jesus, no._

So far the main thing he has learned in therapy is that he is a paranoid idiot with control issues. 

Today, his anxiety is not just your bog-standard anxiety that comes with seeing the guy you are in love with for the first time in a few months. No, today the anxiety is targeted. Today Eddie is on a mission. 

Today he has a confession to make. He will leave no room for doubt. He will not chicken out at the last minute like he has done so many times on the phone, in person, while drunk, while sober. There will be no misinterpreting of his words. He is going to tell Richie he is in love with him and wants to be with him forever, move in with him, fuck him, marry him, grow old with him, do whatever the fuck Richie wants to do, but not necessarily in that order. 

Up ahead, a blue sign hanging from the ceiling that says 'ARRIVALS' in bold, yellow letters. Eddie's heart jumps in his throat and he feels extremely silly for it. 

He has long since had to accept that when it comes to Richie, he is always going to be incredibly stupid. Like when he wears novelty socks just so he can tell Richie he is wearing novelty socks. Or when he goes to the cinema by himself to watch the latest DC movie the day it comes out just so he can call Richie about it afterwards. Or, more topically, when he books two flights instead of one just so he can spend a few hours hanging out with him at O'Hare International.

Eddie walks straight past the baggage claim belt just as it comes to life with an unpleasant squeak. His palm is clammy against the plastic handle of his tiny suitcase. Somewhere down the long hall, a toddler is throwing a screaming tantrum.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he stops so abruptly that the woman behind him stumbles over his suitcase.

"Sorry," he says in her general direction but he is fixated on his screen.

"Whatever, dickhead," she mutters which is so unnecessarily rude it makes him grin.

 **From: Richie 4:12pm** **  
**_just witnessed the most dramatic reunion ever. i thought love like that only happened in the movies_

 **From: Richie 4:12pm** **  
**_they ran towards each other, both sobbing. luggage was dropped on the floor. they are still hugging._

 **From: Richie 4:13pm** **  
**_think we can top that?_

Eddie's grin widens. He pulls his suitcase close so no one else will fall over it and then types out a response.

 **To: Richie 4:13pm** **  
**_I'm not touching you. You can cry though, if you want._

With renewed confidence he makes towards the automatic doors leading out into the arrivals area. A wall of faces greets him outside, ranging in expression from hopeful to bored. He scans the crowd and finds Richie towards the left, standing back slightly to leave room for a family of eight clearly experiencing some high emotions about whoever they are waiting for.

He looks insanely good, and Eddie struggles to cope with that. His hair is longer than Eddie has ever seen it and he has it pushed back with a blue headband, which should look stupid but is unfortunately the cutest thing he has ever seen. Purely to make life difficult for Eddie, Richie hasn't shaved in a few days and his stubble makes the strong line of his jaw all the more enticing.

Despite the two years that have passed since Derry he looks younger now than he did then. He looks rested, his skin is healthy like that of a man that has learned how to moisturise. Unlike his usual glasses these ones have clear frames which should make him look like a grade-A coffee snob douchebag but instead they brighten up his face.

When Richie spots him, he lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. He waves at him enthusiastically and moves closer to the front of the crowd.

Eddie's mouth is dry. He wants to jump on him and cling on for the next few hours. Already he dreads having to leave that night, wishes that they could have spent the whole weekend together. He could have watched Jurassic Park with Richie, curled up against each other on his ugly couch and eating takeaway food. Instead, he was in a four hour meeting with the world's most annoying client, the absolute worst combination of 'doesn't know what they are talking about' and ' _thinks_ they know exactly what they are talking about'.

He doesn't know which one of them reaches out and pulls, doesn't know who pushes, but then he is wrapped up in Richie's arms with his face tucked into his shoulder and his suitcase forgotten to his side. Someone could steal it, he understands that he should be worried about this, but he cannot find it in himself to care about anything beyond the sandalwood scent of his aftershave and the hand curled warm around his nape.

Richie hugs like this, he has learned, with his whole body and every ounce of himself. He gives these hugs out freely to any of the Losers but particularly to Bev and Eddie, as if he has taken it upon himself to show them the kind of love that isn't suffocating.

"Hey," Richie says against Eddie's temple, and he can feel his lips move there. There's a breath of a laugh to his words — like he is so happy to see Eddie it bubbles out of him.

Or maybe Eddie is projecting. He feels like a saucepan boiling over.

"Hey," Eddie says as they separate. His hand lingers on Richie's waist but only for a few seconds. "Who talked you into those glasses? I'd like to have words with them."

"Pfft, you cannot lecture me on fashion. What the fuck is this hoodie? Did they forget how to make a vertical cut? Do they not do those anymore? I can't keep up, I swear."

Richie tugs at the zipper pull of Eddie's hoodie, pulling it down a few inches. It's completely unnecessary and it makes the caveman part of Eddie's brain flip the fuck out.

"Stop undressing me," he says. "There are children around."

And while Richie laughs, he also flushes a funny shade of red. Eddie counts it as some sort of victory.

"It's good to see you, man." Richie looks him up and down, as though assessing the truth of his statement. "You're looking fresh."

"I doubt that."

"Shut up, you do look fresh! Like you've been peeled out of an egg." He stops, considering. "A massive, human-sized egg. That's a little gross, dude."

Eddie grins so wide that his face hurts. "You're the one who said it."

"Well, you're the one who hatched out of the massive egg."

With a disbelieving snort, Eddie grabs the handle of his tiny suitcase and swings it around. "I need a coffee to be able to deal with you. Is there a Starbucks in this shit hole?"

There is, in fact, a Starbucks. In the queue Richie tells Eddie about his show and gets him up on all the latest drama on the TV show he is writing. To summarise: Steve had a blow-out fight with Richie’s PR manager Zoey and one of the tech guys got a bad tattoo of his girlfriend's face on a whim on Friday night, drunk out of his mind in Ukrie Village.

When Richie shows him the photo, Eddie laughs so hard and ugly that he makes a baby cry at a nearby table.

Richie slurps his Venti Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino™ obnoxiously while Eddie rants about the client he met with yesterday, constructing an elaborate web of information about investment risk that Richie will most likely not retain any of. Even as he waves his hands and complains, Eddie's heart beats giddily in his chest, a constant reminder that they are here together and Richie is so close he could reach out and take his hand if he wanted to. 

And Eddie does want to. Has always wanted to. Will always want to.

The realisation came in the form of a jacket.

On the first New Year's Eve they remembered each other, all the Losers gathered at Ben's weird-ass recluse forest house to celebrate. Huddled around the fire pit in his backyard, they sat in the early hours of the new year and understood each other in the way only survivors could. Stan's wife Patty slotted into their dynamic easily enough, albeit a little suspicious at first, but she was as much an extension of Stan as he seemed to be an extension of her so she felt familiar in the way they all did to each other.

Eddie shivered in the cold air of night, the kind of cold that seeps into your skin and overstays its welcome there. And Richie noticed, in the way he always did. Without pausing his conversation with Bev he peeled off his jacket, leaned across the gap between their chairs and draped it over Eddie’s shoulders. 

Then he turned back to Bev like nothing happened, no stupid comment, no mean joke. Just a gesture. Just a jacket laid warm around Eddie. 

As his friends talked around him Eddie stared at his hands, pink from the cold, and he thought: 

_Oh, fuck. I love him._

He had loved him then as he loves him now, as he will continue to love him. 

So now all Eddie needs to do is tell Richie which is proving to be more difficult than he imagined. How do you find the right moment to confess your love to your best friend if all the moments are happening in a fucking airport Starbucks? It doesn't exactly set the mood for romance.

"Do you want to grab something to eat?" Eddie asks, interrupting Richie's story about trying to convince Steve that Jake Gyllenhaal should play his love interest on the show.

"Wha— Uh, sure." Richie slurps the last dredges of his Venti Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino™ and the noise is so annoying that Eddie briefly doubts his commitment to confessing.

But then Richie says, "Sushi? You love sushi, right?" and Eddie melts into something closely resembling a puddle, because just as Richie knows that Eddie loves sushi, Eddie knows that Richie fucking hates it.

During one of their many post-Derry phone calls, Richie was walking Eddie through his UberEats options. When Eddie had suggested sushi, he'd gasped as though he had suggested cannibalism.

"Why the fuck would I eat raw fish? That's how you get Sal-moh-nelia.”

"I know you know how to say Salmonella, Richie," Eddie said and put him on speaker phone so he could get back to folding the laundry he abandoned an hour ago when Richie had called.

"Sorry, I don't know that man."

"Just go for Buddha Express," Eddie said snippily. "We always have this conversation, and you always end up ordering from Buddha Express. Save us the hour long debate."

"Oh, but you love the debates," Richie sing-songed. "I think it's like a fetish for you."

"I think it's the opposite, actually. When I talk to you, my dick shrivels up."

So Richie hates sushi, or at least he doesn't like the idea of eating raw fish. You know, because of the Sal-moh-nelia.

"Sushi sounds good," Eddie says and collects their empty cups from the table.

The sushi restaurant is one of those open airport ones with no walls, purely so that you have no way of forgetting that you are at the fucking airport. Eddie would love to forget, actually, would really appreciate being lured into the illusion that he has all the time in the world to tell Richie he is in love with him.

But as it stands, the clock on the wall moves steadily closer to 7pm, his self-imposed deadline for confessing. Because if he leaves it any later than that, chances are he will have to cut short whatever conversation may follow — which might not be such a bad thing if the conversation is “Oh, dude, I'm sorry, I think we're better off as friends”, but would be devastating if the conversation includes some variation of making out in a quiet part of the airport or holding hands, or both. 

As he looks down at his plate of sashimi, Eddie thinks that maybe sushi wasn't such a good idea. Raw fish is definitely not what you want to taste like the first time you kiss someone. Or the second, third, and fourth. By the fifth it might be okay because if you've gotten someone to kiss you that often, chances are that they at least like you a little bit and are willing to look past the fish aftertaste. 

"Rich, listen," Eddie starts and moves a piece of cuttlefish from one side of the plate to the other with his chopstick.

When he looks up, he finds Richie already staring.

"All ears," Richie says when Eddie stays silent.

As he looks at Richie, Eddie’s stomach swoops nervously. The feeling of gearing up for a jump. Tension. Poised to leap. The universe narrows down to that single point in time and space. He holds the chopstick so tightly that he fears they might break. He leans forward and his heart stutters. 

Over the tannoy, an announcement. Something about a gate change for a Delta Airline flight. Nothing important. Pulled out of this moment of pure focus, Eddie falters and loses any semblance of the bravery Richie so passionately ascribed him in the sewers. 

He stabs the cuttlefish with one chopstick and shoves it into his mouth.

Maybe he should have written Richie a fucking letter. It would have been easy enough to slip that into his jacket pocket when he isn't looking, or at least easier than having to look him in the eyes over plates of sushi and say, _Hey, bro, I'm in love with you._

He probably shouldn't call him _bro_ while he says it. 

"Nothing," he says, feeling like an idiot. "Never mind."

"Huh."

For a moment they look at each other, cast in the bluish glow of the overhead lights, and there is a curious tilt to the slope of Richie's mouth, a slight frown between his eyebrows. Like he is working something out.

And wouldn't that be ironic? If Eddie dragged his feet for so long that Richie simply figured him out? Fourteen months of working up to this moment, and Richie steals it from him.

Quietly, Eddie thinks that might not be such a bad thing. It would save him the trouble of deciding how to bring it up, of the feeling you get when you're gearing up for a big jump, the shortness of breath, every muscle in the body tensing up in preparation.

Or maybe Richie already knows. Maybe he has known for months and months, and his silence on the matter is just his way of letting Eddie down gently.

Eddie looks down at his plate and his glare burns holes into the tuna.

 _Q:_ _  
__1\. Is my thought based on fact?_ _  
__2\. Does my thought help me achieve my goals?_ _  
__3\. Does my thought help me feel the way I want to feel?_

 _A:_ _  
__1\. No, Richie has never indicated that he might know how I feel._ _  
__2\. If the goal is to make me freak the fuck out then yeah, I guess._ _  
__3\. Not in the slightest._

At 6:58pm, two minutes to spare until his self-imposed confession deadline, Eddie abruptly stands up, his hands flat on the white table, and he says, “I need a piss.”

Richie, who was halfway through an elaborate story including his next door neighbour Jino, a fire truck, and a fake Rolex watch stolen from his apartment, snaps his mouth shut and looks at him with his eyebrows drawn up to his steadily receding hairline.

“Manners, Mr. Kaspbrak,” Richie tuts, feigning offence.

“I had no idea you knew what those are."

"I don't but I think _you_ should, Mr Wheeled-suitcase-on-a-business-trip."

"Please, call me Eddie. Mr Wheeled-suitcase-on-a-business-trip was my father," Eddie says which makes Richie snort. He glances down at his watch. 6:59pm. _Fuck._ "I'm going."

"Think of me while you pee," Richie says with a wistful wave.

In the bathroom Eddie locks himself in a cubicle and sits down on the closed lid of the toilet, but only after cleaning it thoroughly with a disinfectant wipe.

So he didn't confess. Yes, there is still time, but the likelihood of him gathering the courage to do this is dwindling by the minute which means he has to accept the fact that he is a fucking coward and nothing scares him more than the thought of losing his best friend.

Because that is what they are — best friends. Not the vague, carried over from childhood notion of friendship that they shared when they locked eyes across the table at the Jade, that quiet understanding of _I knew you once, I could know you again._

Since everything; the clown, Derry, remembering in little bursts of _Oh right,_ of _that explains a lot actually,_ Eddie and Richie have built something, the same way that all of them have. As a group and amongst each other. Some things have remained the same, like the way Mike and Bill understand each other without having to speak, the way that Stan is the reason to Richie's chaos, the quiet, unwanted understanding Bev and Eddie share about parents, about spouses. The way that Richie and Eddie riff off each other, pushing and pulling, laughing when others might think they are fighting. 

But everything is new, too. A little unfamiliar. These days Richie tells him when he feels like shit instead of swallowing it down while his jokes become meaner and meaner. These days Eddie doesn't always take the bait. Sometimes he just tells him to stop being an asshole and Richie listens, and sometimes he even stops being an asshole. Or he continues to be an asshole, hangs up, and calls him back an hour later to apologise for it.

Richie is the first person Eddie calls when he has news, good or bad. Richie is the person he texts when something funny happens to him, or something annoying, or when he watches a movie and wants to talk about it. He texts him first thing in the morning and before he goes to bed. At least once a week, Eddie falls asleep on the phone with him after staying up way later than he meant to, and when he wakes up an hour later in a confused daze Richie is still there, watching TV and listening to Eddie's snoring.

And sure, on a purely rational level Eddie understands that Richie won't tell him to fuck off and never speak to him again if he doesn't feel the same way. But their dynamic will still change, possibly irrevocably so.

That's fucking terrifying. Eddie doesn't want anything about their dynamic to change except for the fact that he wants to kiss, fuck and potentially move to Chicago to be with Richie. That is all. No big changes, really. Just some minor improvements.

The whole moving to Chicago bit is probably the only thing that requires a little bit of work from the both of them. For one Richie will need a bigger closet because there is no way all of Eddie's clothes will fit into the one he currently has. As a matter of fact Eddie has quite a few thoughts on his interior design choices, for example that the couch is an affront to the concept of furniture, and the fact that dirty laundry does not count as soft furnishing and should not be featured in every room, but — okay, he is losing the plot a little bit.

With a pained groan, Eddie puts his head in his hands.

He just needs more time, that’s all. More hours with Richie to work up the nerve to take his stupid, handsome face into his hands and yell: "I am in so in love with you it drives me insane!"

He doesn't want to board the plane in an hour knowing that he won't see Richie again for at least a couple of months and that he wasted his one chance at telling him in person. Because regardless of what happens today, Eddie is determined to tell him one way or another. He will send him a fucking email if he has to. There is no way he is going to sit on this for another two to six months, stewing in it, absolutely fucking not.

He doesn't want to board that plane. He doesn't want to leave, to miss Richie again, to pine for him from afar like a goddamn Jane Austen hero.

It occurs to him then, under the harsh neon light of the airport bathroom, that he doesn't have to get on it. He makes 110k a year and has a stupid amount of savings, having spent the last twenty odd years of his life being overly cautious with his money. He can afford to miss this flight and book another one for tomorrow.

Who is going to fucking stop him? He has a ridiculous amount of PTO saved up and no one to come home to except his modest collection of house plants and an empty bed. The person that he wants to come home to is here, at O'Hare Airport, sitting at a table at Wicker Park Sushi Bar and probably wondering if Eddie has had a heart attack and died while taking a shit.

With newfound determination, Eddie exits his cubicle and washes his hands. He scrubs them thoroughly, conscious of the threat of airport germs, and dries them just as thoroughly. 

When he returns to their table Richie is playing Candy Crush on his phone and nursing a new beer. He looks up when Eddie approaches, a wry grin on his face.

"Bowel trouble, old man?" he says with feigned sympathy. "I told you that raw fish isn't good for you."

"I'm staying the night," Eddie says, his knuckles white where he is gripping the back of his chair.

Richie blinks up at him. "That bad, huh?"

"I don't mean in the fucking bathroom, Richie, I mean Chicago. I'm staying until tomorrow."

"Huh? Why?"

"Because I want to hang out with you, dipshit."

Richie's face settles into something akin to wonder.

"Oh," he says stupidly.

"Yeah, exactly." Eddie grabs his jacket off the back of the chair. "Come on, let's go. I’m not spending the night at the fucking airport sushi bar.” 

"I just got a new beer," Richie says but he is already halfway out of his chair.

"Fuck your beer." Eddie grins manically. "There will be beer wherever we go next."

They take the Blue Line towards Forest Park. Nineteen stops, then they disembark at Jackson, which puts them near Millenium Park. 

Eddie has been to Chicago twice since Derry, both times to visit Richie. He had never been before but now he finds himself missing the city in pangs, intertwined with the way he misses Richie. The first time he came was a few months after he realised that he was in love with Richie, after that catalyst of a New Year's party, and they spent the entire weekend holed up in Richie's apartment in Logan Square, watching movies, playing Mario Kart, and eating their body weight in pistachios while Eddie tried desperately not to lose his mind about how badly he wanted to kiss every inch of Richie's skin, even when he was covered in pistachio dust and scratching his belly on the couch.

The second time was Thanksgiving of last year, at which point Eddie had more or less come to terms with the whole Love thing and felt a little more prepared. This did not protect him from tearing up a little when Richie wrapped his arms around him at the airport and pressed a kiss to the side of his head, but despite it all Eddie managed not to a) bawl and b) climb Richie like a tree.

Because Eddie was less fragile the second time around, he managed to convince Richie they couldn't just sit at home all day so they went around checking off various tourist attractions — the Bean at Millenium Park, the Sears Tower Skydeck, the Art Institute which Richie insisted on because of his weird thing for _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_. Both Saturday and Sunday, Eddie's step counter on his FitBit broke 20,000 steps and Richie fell asleep on him on the couch in the evening which didn't exactly strengthen Eddie's resolve not to a) bawl or b) climb Richie like a tree. A felled one, in this case.

So when they climb the stairs out onto the street at Jackson metro station, the city that rises up before him is somewhat familiar, in the way that places feel familiar when you have fond memories of them. And Eddie has nothing of fond memories of Chicago, given that this is the city with Richie in it. It could be the ugliest place in the world for all he cares. 

It's dark outside by that point, and downtown is teeming with life as any city is wont to be on a weekend. They weave through the crowd, Eddie’s suitcase tripping up random pedestrians, and when they get separated for the third time by a group of people refusing to split up and let them pass, Richie mutters something under his breath and slings an arm around Eddie's shoulder.

"Let's just couple it up," he says cheerfully as he drags Eddie in the direction of a pedestrian crossing. "People respect the couple walk more than the friendship walk."

Eddie has no idea what the fuck that means but Richie smells very nice and his arm is a warm, steady weight across his shoulders, and all he can think about is how badly he wants to be held by him, so he lets the fantasy of it wash over him. He doesn't complain about Richie pulling him along, he doesn't even complain when Richie adjusts the collar of Eddie's jacket for him when they stop at the crosswalk.

He lets it bolster him, this simple show of affection. Richie is a tactile person, has always been a tactile person, but that doesn't mean he can't read into this. The more he reads into things, the more likely it is that Eddie will gather up the courage to tell Richie how he feels before the night is through.

"I was promised beer," Richie says, stopping at a street corner and sliding his arm off Eddie's shoulders. "So, beer?"

Eddie shrugs. "I don't care what we do."

"Beer it is." Richie cranes his neck and looks around as if he is able to spot every bar within a one mile radius that way. "There's Brando's Speakeasy if you wanna pretend to be hip and cool with me."

"Neither of us are hip and cool."

"I said 'pretend to', didn't I? You cynic."

Eddie grins and knocks Richie's elbow with his own. "Fine, let's try to blend in with the youth of today."

"Ah, I remember when we were the youth of today," Richie sighs and puts his hand on the small of Eddie's back to guide him in the other direction, towards Brando's Speakeasy.

Eddie feels hot all over. In the privacy of his thoughts, he puts on his reading glasses and underlines this particular manifestation of Richie's tactile nature or, if he allows himself to be hopeful, of Richie's undying love for him.

"I don't think you were ever the youth of today, mind," Richie continues. "You were born a grumpy, old man."

Eddie says, "Fuck you," with a good-natured elbow to the side. "If I hadn't been such a grumpy old man, who else would have stepped up to keep you in check?"

Richie laughs loudly, with his whole body, his head thrown back and his nose scrunched up in a way that Eddie finds incredibly charming. "Dude, Stan was the one who kept me in check. You did nothing but egg me on all the fucking time."

"Excuse me?" Eddie glowers at him. "I tried to keep you in check, you just refused to let me."

"Nah, pal. You jumped on every stupid dare and every joke I made like a rabid dog. Feral little bastard."

"You just baited me," Eddie huffs. "Not my fault."

"Yeah, but you were always the most fun to poke with a stick," Richie tells him. "No one else humoured me like that."

"I didn't humour you." A car horn blares right by them and Eddie grimaces at the ear-splitting volume. "I genuinely just found you infuriating. Nothing to do with humouring you."

Richie looks at him with a strange little smile, the kind of smile that makes Eddie feel things he has only ever felt for Richie, like a soul-shaking love, a stomach in knots.

Jesus fucking Christ, he _has_ to tell him. He cannot stew in this any longer.

If it's out there, at least he won't have to sit with the noise of it in his head, whatever the outcome might be. And who knows, maybe the way Richie looks at him, the way he touches him, the way he trusts Eddie with parts of himself no one else gets to see really does mean something.

"Richie," Eddie says, gripped by a sudden courage. "Listen."

"Listening," Richie nods and presses the pedestrian button on the crosswalk. 

Eddie looks at him out of the corner of his eyes. Sees the way he tilts his head and looks back, sees the way his shoulders tense like he is poised for an argument, as though Eddie is going to list everything he hates about him instead of telling him he is stupidly in love with him and wants to swallow him whole.

He crumbles, if only a little. Caving under the pressure.

"Uh," he says. "Do you want to come to New York soon?" Not what he meant to say, of course, but something he has been meaning to bring up anyways. "Now that I have the apartment, you wouldn't have to sleep on the couch."

"Oh, baby," Richie swoons. "I'd even sleep on the couch for you if you asked nicely."

Eddie snorts. "I'm telling you that you don't have to."

"But I would. Just want to make that very clear. I'd sleep in a dumpster for you."

"Eugh. Please don't sleep in a fucking dumpster, ever, but especially not in New York City." The noise of traffic abates as they turn a corner and get off the main road. "Just sleep in the bed in my guest room like a normal person. So is that a yes?"

"Obviously it's a yes," Richie says and grins. "I'll make sure to clear my busy schedule for you."

"You say ‘busy schedule’ like it's a joke but I know for a fact you are filming a TV show."

Richie makes a sort of 'whatever' gesture, throwing up his hands in an exaggerated shrug. Always undermining his achievements. Always infuriating. 

By his third beer, Eddie has attempted to tell Richie another four times, and each time he lost momentum before he could get the words out. When Richie got up to get more drinks after beer number two Eddie grabbed him by the wrist and said, "Hey, Rich," and then he just fucking stared at him for a full twenty seconds without saying anything at all.

In the end, Eddie let him go without as much as an explanation.

It's not that Eddie thinks there is no chance Richie might feel the same. He's gay, which is always a good start, he calls Eddie baby, my love, darling, and pumpkin with an insistence he shows none of the other Losers, and sometimes there is a charged silence at the end of their phone calls, the kind of silence that longs to be filled by _I love you, you know I do, right? You know._

Except Richie has never filled that silence, and Eddie hasn't either. It's like a Mexican fucking standoff but instead of guns they have poor attempts at flirting and a ridiculous amount of casual touching whenever they are around each other.

It could be that if Richie were to fill the silence he would say, _Hey, man, I think things are a bit weird between us. What's with the fucking staring?_

And Eddie will nurse his wounds for a little while, feel intensely embarrassed probably for the rest of his life, and hopefully by the time he has recovered their friendship is still salvageable.

But it's not that he thinks there is no chance Richie might feel the same. It's just that he is a coward, he is, despite all the faith of his friends and the weight of the fencepost in his hand, and there is nothing that scares him more than Richie fucking Tozier.

"Dude, you good? You've been weird all night." Richie clinks the neck of his beer bottle against Eddie's. The sound brings Eddie back to this moment, this place, and he blinks.

"Yes," he says. "I'm just thinking."

"Didn't know you were capable of that."

"Ha ha." Eddie wraps his hand around his bottle and the condensation is cold against his palm. "I'm just thinking about consequences."

"Consequences," Richie repeats back to him. "That's abstract. Like the concept of consequences? Specific consequences? The consequences of your actions? Consequences of the Panama Papers? It doesn't even sound like a word anymore."

Eddie raises his eyebrows at him. "The consequences of my actions. Potential actions I am thinking of taking."

"Ah," Richie nods, understanding. "Of course. Normal things to think about while enjoying a beer with your bestie."

"My _bestie?"_

"What, am I not?! Eddie, don't break my heart!"

Eddie rolls his eyes. "You are my best friend," he reassures him. "But I was under the impression we were forty years old, not high school horse girls."

"I am a high school horse girl at heart. _Bestie,"_ Richie sing-songs and puts his hands together to form a heart in front of his chest. "So what actions are you taking and what consequences are you anticipating?"

"Ugh." Eddie massages the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, eyes squeezed shut. Again, he thinks about telling him then and there, laying his cards on the table and letting Richie read them. "Can we get shots?"

A moment of silence, and then Richie bursts out laughing.

"Looks like the consequences of your actions are gonna be a hangover," he says, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Let's get some fucking shots, Kaspbrak."

Richie insists on Sambuca, which is fucking disgusting but Eddie is feeling generous so they do two shots each. It goes down like his body is trying to reject it the whole way and it takes everything in his power not to retch.

To make up for it, Richie gets him a little pink cocktail with a tiny umbrella, "To wash down the Buca," as he says. It's sweet and sticky on his lips as Eddie sips it but at least he can no longer taste aniseed at the back of his throat.

And when Eddie chases the straw with his tongue, Richie stares at him in a way that makes Eddie feel hot all over. It might mean something. He would like it to mean something. 

Eddie realises that he is drunk when he stands up from his chair and feels so lightheaded that the world tilts on its axis around him and he has to hold onto the edge of the table to steady himself.

"I'm drunk," he informs Richie. "Huh."

"Yes, you are," Richie nods. "Your face is all red."

Self-conscious, Eddie touches his cheeks.

Richie wags a finger at him and says, "'s cute."

"Oh."

Around them the bar has grown exponentially busy. It's nearing 11pm and there isn't a table free, and there are groups of people who are dedicated enough to this 'hip spot' as Richie called it to stand in clusters around their bags on the floor, drinks in hand. The music is deafening, more night club levels than what you would expect at a bar — some remix, might be ABBA if you squint, but Eddie can't be sure.

"Yo, Eds!" Richie says over it, voice just barely below a shout. "You wanna go home?"

Eddie does not want to go home. Going home means that he has failed. He's already missed the 7pm deadline and lost 150 bucks in the process, he can't give up now.

 _You could tell him at home,_ some treacherous part of him whispers. _There's always time._

But there isn't. That sort of thinking is what got him here. If he had just confessed when he first realised at Ben's ridiculous house in the forest, out by the fire pit in his garden that sprawled over into the trees lining it, if Eddie had listened to the brave, silly part of himself that said _do it now,_ then he would already be over the worst of it now. Fourteen months is enough time for Richie to come to terms with Eddie's feelings, to stop feeling awkward about them, and for their friendship to recover.

Instead, he sits here now. Still that same old feeling, that same old silence. Come summer, it will have been two years since they defeated the clown. The Losers Club will gather somewhere, perhaps right here in Chicago, perhaps in LA with Bill and Mike, or in Atlanta with Stan and Patty, wherever their reunion takes them, and they will commiserate and drink and love each other the way only Losers can. And Eddie will still have to look at Richie with this enormous feeling in his chest and he won't know where to put his hands, his words.

He has to tell him. It has to be tonight or he will never do it.

"Not yet," Eddie shouts back. "But can we go somewhere else?"

Quiet. What he needs is quiet and some fresh air. Things will look different in the light of street lamps, under the skyline of the city.

Their table is immediately claimed by a group of twenty-somethings who have been circling them like vultures for the past hour, thinking _surely those old guys will get tired soon and make space for us._ Like a victory dance, one of the guys throws his hands up with a loud whoop, rubbing it in the face of those around them that are still standing. 

Eddie takes Richie by the wrist, wishes it was his hand, and pulls him outside.

"You sure we can't just go home?" Richie asks him, almost pleading, as they stand on the pavement and zip up their jackets.

The air is biting cold, a harsh wind brought in by the lake nearby. It sobers Eddie up within minutes — not completely, just enough so that the world feels less overwhelming. He keeps one hand on the handle of his little suitcase and straightens his collar with the other one. 

"I'm not tired," he says.

"Well, I am. I'm old now, man. I'm not the man I was last summer."

"You were old last summer, too."

Richie grins and shrugs off the dig.

Eddie says, "I don't want to go home yet."

It's more to convince himself than to convince Richie. If there is one thing he knows about their friendship, it's that Richie rarely needs to be convinced when it comes down to it. If Eddie says jump, he jumps.

Similarly, if Richie says jump Eddie jumps, but he will be extremely bitchy about it the whole way down. 

"Alright, dude. Where do you want to go?"

"Let's just walk for a bit."

"Ugh, you health freak.”

They end up by the water. It pulls them in, the magnetism of the lake. They walk along the promenade and Richie tells Eddie he is thinking of moving house, says he is getting tired of his apartment. Eddie doesn't tell Richie that he is thinking of moving, too, doesn't say that he is getting tired of New York City. That he is getting tired of spending months and months without Richie.

That is a conversation for later. Hopefully by then, it will make sense to Richie when he says it.

They sit down at the edge of the water and dangle their legs. For a moment Eddie is gripped by some ancient fear, of getting pushed in, of falling, thinks of hypothermia and of drowning, but it goes as quickly as it came. He’s braver than that.

"I got my postcard from Bike the other day," Richie tells him.

"From Bike?"

"Bill and Mike."

"You can't call them _Bike."_

"Why the fuck not?"

"That is so infuriating," Eddie huffs. "What do you call Ben and Bev?"

"Benverly," Richie says. "Stan and Patty are Stanpat."

"Ugh."

"We're Reddie."

Eddie covers his face with his hands and groans.

"I mean, platonically," Richie adds. "But I think our friendship deserves a portmanteau."

Eddie tries not to let that sting. He isn't a fucking child.

"Why not Echie?"

"Because that sounds fucking awful, that's why."

"Reddie isn't much better," Eddie points out.

"Uh, yeah it is. You can even make puns with it. 'Are you guys Reddie to go?'"

"I hate this conversation. Can you go back to talking about your postcard?"

Richie grins at him but he nods. "So I got my postcard from Bike. They're in, uh, Guatemala? I believe? They're climbing some mountains."

"They're in Ecuador," Eddie corrects him. "I was on the phone with Mike yesterday."

"Mike never fucking calls me."

"I called him. Do _you_ call him?"

Richie scoffs. "Why would I call him? He should be calling me, he's the one who chose to abandon us to go on his great big adventure with his beau. Why do I have to call him?"

"I bet you call Bill," says Eddie.

"Well." Richie lobs a pebble into the lake and it goes down with a plop. "I do, but that's besides the point."

"You can just admit that Mike intimidates you."

"Mike doesn't intimidate me. Mike is my friend. I love Mike."

Eddie grins at him and says, "I think he intimidates you because you don't know what the fuck he is talking about half the time. It goes against your desire to be the most nonsensical person in the room at any given point."

"Slander!" Richie yells and throws another pebble, further this time. It sails through the air like their loogies at the Barrens and hits the surface like a missile. "Lies and slander."

Richie only resorts to yelling 'Lies and slander!' when Eddie hits the nail on the head. This time, Eddie lets him get away with it.

"It's fucking freezing," Richie says after a moment of quiet. "Can we please go home?"

"No," Eddie says. "We're hanging out."

"It's nearly midnight. We can hang out at home. I have heating, you know? And blankets. And a comfortable sofa."

"I hate your sofa," Eddie points out. 

"But not because it's uncomfortable. You hate it because your taste in interior design is fucking boring."

"My taste is fine, thank you."

Privately, Eddie admits to himself that Richie's sofa is actually very comfortable. Sinking into it at the end of a long day of walking around Chicago in the relentless sun is a much better feeling than that of sinking into his sofa in New York after a long day at work. His sofa is impeccable, sleek black leather which sticks to your bare skin in the summer and is cold to touch in the winter, always a little uncomfortable. It goes well with everything else in the room, but he cannot lie to himself and say that it comes anywhere close to the comfort of Richie's sofa.

However, Richie's sofa is fire engine red, has a mysterious stain on one of the arms and can only be described as an eye sore. It might be comfortable, but that comfort comes at a great cost to Eddie's general wellbeing.

When he moves in — if he moves in, fucking Christ, don't get ahead of yourself — he will at the very least insist on reupholstering it.

Richie touches the back of Eddie's hand with his fingertips. He says, "Hey, Eds," and pulls away instead of keeping them there like Eddie wants him to.

"Hm?"

"Are you alright, man? You've been jittery all night."

Eddie stares out across the lake. There is movement, the wind rippling along the surface, a gentle push and pull of waves, and despite the thick cloud cover there is a silver glow of moonlight dancing along it.

He is stuck in between Richie and the water. There is nowhere else to go from here. His heart thumps erratically in his chest, so loud that he is sure Richie must be able to hear it.

"I'm fine," he says. "Just thinking about shit."

"That's always a bad sign."

"Fuck off," Eddie says, more out of habit than anything else. There isn't anything to it but a gentle kind of bite, a nip.

"Wanna tell me what shit you're thinking about?"

"Yeah, I do." Eddie digs a pebble out of a crack between concrete slabs. He throws it and it sails in a long arc out across the lake, further than either of Richie's pebbles had gone. "Can we walk?"

"You're killing me, Eds."

"Come on, it's good for you."

"No, what would be good for me right now is sleeping in my bed."

Eddie rolls his eyes and says, "Don't pretend you're not usually up until 2am anyways."

"That's different."

"How?"

"If I'm up late, it's usually because I'm high and watching reality TV. Not because I'm being dragged through the Loop by a short, angry man."

"I'm 5'9, bitch."

"Yeah, as I said: A short, angry man."

Eddie flips him off, then gets to his feet and Richie follows. He takes hold of his suitcase.

He knows that he is being ridiculous, and he doesn't need Richie to tell him this. He could put an end to it if he could just get the words out, if he could sit Richie down on a bench, or simply stand in front of him and say, _I love you, I love you, I love you._

He will. _He will._ He has to. It's all or nothing tonight. 

"Fuck off," Richie says, a disbelieving laugh to his voice. "Really?"

Eddie looks over at him "What?"

"It's raining."

With a frown, Eddie looks up at the sky. Dark clouds, and sure enough, a drop of rain lands on Eddie's brow bone. Then another on his cheek, one on his upper lip.

"Fuck," he says.

"Now can we go home?" Richie asks hopefully.

"Not yet."

They walk in the direction they came from. Eddie is aware that Richie is steering them towards the metro station but he lets him do it, hopeful that the added pressure will force his hand.

The rain picks up. Soon enough, Eddie's hair is wet and losing all shape, strands of it sticking to his forehead. Richie takes off his glasses to wipe them on his shirt, but it's hopeless. When he puts them back on, they are clear for all of thirty seconds before the rain takes them.

Richie says, "Can we please talk about it? Whatever it is."

Eddie clutches the wet handle of his suitcase, white-knuckled. He blinks furiously against the rain. It blurs his vision like tears.

 _How melodramatic_ , he thinks.

Out loud he says, "I'm just scared."

"Scared of what?"

"You."

Richie stops walking. Eddie, a few steps ahead, stops as well and turns around to look at him.

"Dude, what?" Richie says, his eyes wide, and he pushes his wet hair out of his forehead and it sticks up at odd angles. 

His shoulders are hunched, like the rain is dragging him down, and water drips down from the tip of his nose. His cheeks are tinged pink from the cold and his eyes are blurry behind his glasses. 

Eddie wants to look at him for the rest of his life. 

“What do you have to be scared of?” Richie says. “It’s just me.” 

And it is, isn’t it? Just Richie. His best friend. Funny, ridiculous, infuriating Richie who calls him early in the morning and late at night, who knows Eddie inside and out even when he forgot him for two decades, who puts up with his shit and thinks Eddie is the funniest motherfucker on the planet, even though no one else does. It’s just Richie, who might very well love him back. 

_Q:_ _  
__1\. Is my thought based on fact?_ _  
__2\. Does my thought help me achieve my goals?_ _  
__3\. Does my thought help me feel the way I want to feel?_

 _A:_ _  
__1\. I hope so. I know so?_  
 _2\. If the goal is to kiss Richie Tozier then yes, absolutely._ _  
_3\. Yes. Loved. Optimistic.

Finally, he says, “That’s the problem.”

Richie frowns, a deep crease between his eyebrows. He takes a step closer and Eddie can see the muscle in his jaw working, as though he is searching for the words right there in his mouth.

"Eddie, is this— What do you mean?"

There's a moment of quiet between them. Nothing but the sound of the wind and the rain beating down on them. No words, just Eddie's harsh breathing and the rush of blood in his ears.

"Goddamn it," Eddie says. "Fuck.” 

And Richie looks ready to make a wise guy comment, probably something like _eloquent_ or _use your words, Eds,_ but Eddie doesn't let him, he refuses to have this moment cheapened, this chance.

Furious with himself and with the world he crosses the space between them in two quick strides and his suitcase clatters to the ground. He grabs the front of Richie's jacket clumsily, his fingers slipping on the wet leather, and surges up to kiss him with such stupid force that it's a miracle no one gets seriously injured.

Richie makes a startled noise somewhere between a yelp and a squeak and for a moment Eddie thinks, _oh fuck, this is it, he's going to push me away,_ but then Richie's arms are around him and he eases his head back slightly to soften the kiss and suddenly it's sweet and gentle, this precious thing between them.

With stiff fingers, Eddie lets go of Richie's jacket in favour of cupping the back of his head because if he only gets one chance at this then he is going to make it worth it, goddamn it, he's going to touch Richie's hair. He brings his free hand down to Richie's hip and hooks his thumb through the belt loop of his jeans.

Richie's palm is a warm, reassuring pressure against Eddie's lower back and he pulls him closer so their bodies are flush against each other. Eddie feels a little bit insane for how deeply he feels that in his belly, the heat that it sparks.

Rain is still pouring down on them and it is cold against the skin of Eddie's face, and where it drips down into the dip of his collarbones. When Richie opens his mouth and runs his tongue along Eddie's lower lip, the warmth stands in shocking contrast to the world around them.

Eddie curls his fingers in Richie's damp hair and he wants to pull him impossibly closer, wants to unhinge his fucking jaw and swallow him whole, anything to get more of this. He feels raw, open. He dreamt of this, thinks he might still be dreaming now, of Richie's tongue hot against his.

They're as close as humanly possible and yet it doesn't feel like it's enough.

It is Eddie who pulls back first, although not very far. Just enough so that he can look Richie in the eye. He blinks rapidly against the rain blurring his vision and tilts his head back. This close their height difference is exacerbated and some small part of him is bothered by it but mainly he just finds it exhilarating to be held by Richie, whose arms are still wrapped around him now.

That's a good sign, right?

"Uh," Richie says intelligently. He must not be able to see very well with his glasses covered in droplets and Eddie imagines what he might look like through them — kaleidoscopic, blurred. Just how Eddie has felt up until this very moment. Now the world could not be any clearer. 

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

"Kind of," says Eddie.

Richie raises his eyebrows and looks unfortunately adorable. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They are still wrapped up in each other. Eddie trails his hand down from Richie's hair to his nape and rubs circles into the damp skin there. In the distance there's a siren, somewhere on the main road.

"I wanted to tell you," Eddie says. His mind is working overtime, whirring with the possibilities of what it might mean that Richie doesn't seem to have any plans of letting go. He has long since suspected that it wasn't completely hopeless, this love, but suspecting is very different from knowing, from seeing. "At the airport. But then I didn't and my flight was leaving soon and I just— Panicked."

"Wanted to tell me what?"

"Oh, shit." Eddie stares up at him. They are so close he can feel Richie's breath on his face and it should be awful but it's really not. It's intimate. _Romantic._

Regroup, he thinks. You didn't fucking tell him. Edward Kaspbrak, get on it.

Fuelled by a bravery that he didn't know he still possessed, Eddie says, "Right. Fuck. I love you. I am in love with you. That's what I wanted to say."

"Holy shit," Richie whispers, his voice barely audible over the rain. "Eddie. Really?"

"Yes, asshole, really. Why the fuck would I be _lying?"_

"I thought it might be a joke."

“What, you think I'm fucking evil?"

"I mean yeah, a little bit," Richie shrugs. Then he hastily adds, "But in like a cute way."

Eddie glares at him. "I take it back. Love confession rescinded."

"Absolutely not. No take-backsies."

"Ugh," Eddie huffs. "Are you gonna say anything else about this?"

The longer they stand there and the longer Richie does not let go, the more certain Eddie is that he has nothing to fear. That he never had anything to fear. But still, it would be nice to have some sort of response other than _holy shit._

Richie grins widely, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He asks, "Hm, like what?"

"Don't be an asshole."

"You have to love me for who I am."

Eddie rolls his eyes and says, "I do."

"Aw, fuck. That is so weird to hear."

"Richard Wentworth Tozier," Eddie says darkly. "If you don't fucking tell me you love me right now I'm flying back to New York tomorrow without sucking your dick."

A small, high-pitched noise dies in the back of Richie’s throat as he gapes at Eddie. 

"I didn't even know that was on the table! Fuck!"

"It won't be for long."

Richie throws his head back and laughs, too loudly, obnoxious as always, and Eddie's chest squeezes with fondness.

"I love you," Richie says, through giggles. "I love you so fucking much, dude, it's unreal. You make me feel insane."

They stare at each other, both looking like wet dogs with their hair plastered to their foreheads. Eddie wouldn't want to be anywhere else. 

Then Richie says, "Please come home with me."

So maybe he actually doesn't mind where he is, as long as it's with Richie. 

"Yes," he says, but kisses him all over again. 

They drag rainwater all over the L and the soles of their shoes squeak against the floor. Their train is mostly empty save for an old man napping in the corner with a newspaper crumpled up in his lap, and a group of teenagers making more noise than they have any right to, so they stand near the door and Richie covers Eddie's body with his own, shielding him from the outside world.

They kiss lazily, safely out of view of the teenagers down the other end of the subway car, and at every stop Eddie buries his face in the crook of Richie's neck to breathe him in. His cheeks burn pleasantly from the change in temperature and from the way that Richie looks at him like he can't quite believe he's here. Inside his ribcage his heart flutters, just to the left of a deep, gnarled scar that is still pink from healing along the thickest bumps of it.

Later that night, Richie will cover that scar with his hand, with his mouth, he will push Eddie into the cushions of his unbelievably ugly couch and tell him, _I want you. I love you. Be with me._

And in the morning Eddie will ask him for more. He will bring up moving to Chicago over the rim of his chipped coffee mug, emblazoned with the logo of a University Richie has never been to, and he will ask if they can reupholster the couch, and Richie will say _please, yes, I want you in my life. How do you feel about magenta?_

**Author's Note:**

> Lynne said "reddie post-canon one-shot about love confessions/them getting together" and "screams thinking about richie and eddie kissing in the rain in the city at night where the puddles make everything look bright and glowy and magical" and I said ok. 
> 
> Find me on twitter at [@reesefinchs](https://twitter.com/reesefinchs)! (Also maybe if you like check out [Killing Eds](https://twitter.com/killingedsAU), my social media AU based on Killing Eve.


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